


how do you put a price on ancient wisdom?

by ThunderPhang



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Descent into Madness, Epistolary, Implied Character Death, M/M, Manipulation, Paranoia, Paranormal Addiction, Scopophobia, The Eye - Freeform, Unhealthy Relationships, albrecht has terrible letter etiquette, self-neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThunderPhang/pseuds/ThunderPhang
Summary: My dearest Jonah,I must apologise for the expediency in which I am composing these letters. It is concerning to me that this will mark my second letter in our correspondence without allowing you reprieve from my disjointed thoughts, or allowing you the decency to respond, but I fear this is something I cannot allow to be characterised by my silence.Day 2 of Jonah Week - Albrecht von Closen - Epistolary
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus (implied), Jonah Magnus/Albrecht von Closen, Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus (if you squint)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	how do you put a price on ancient wisdom?

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Book Of The Dead On Sale" by Saintseneca.
> 
> I'd also like to thank Koruga for the beta! Bless them and tolerating my atrocious sentence structures.

**_April 5th, 1816_ **

My dearest Jonah,

I must apologise for the expediency in which I am composing these letters. It is concerning to me that this will mark my second letter in our correspondence without allowing you reprieve from my disjointed thoughts, or allowing you the decency to respond, but I fear this is something I cannot allow to be characterised by my silence. Whether you have yet to receive my prior letter, I cannot know, but I will take the liberty in assuming you have read them, for ever since I had shared what has transpired, I can only assume that I have been cursed.

I say that I have been cursed for lack of a better term. Your fascination with the esoteric no doubt can define it better than my clumsy and amateur grasp at the English language. I pray that you can provide me answers from which I am lacking, for I know you are the most knowledgeable, given how ardent you were last spring in delving into the resources at my disposal. I know that this has all been vague, and you must despise me for it, but the acute fear that makes my hand tremble is seeping into my heart, and I am desperate for blessed reassurance, or at least, reprieve. Peace of mind from what I have undoubtedly exposed myself to.

I fear that in my actions, the man from the cemetery has laid a hex upon me, or something of that nature. It could be my actions, from plucking the book I had taken from that place, that has beset upon me this feeling that stalks me.

I will not lie, this level of terror fills me with dread. Dread that in my actions, I have done something I will gravely regret, something that cannot be undone, and I pray to the Lord that by some grand design, I have not. As per my last letter, I have been eager to share what I have found with you ever since we have departed the family estate, but I cannot say I have been only just eager, for it would be a lie. I would say I have been worried. Anxious. The contents of the tome have eluded me still, in the short span of time that has passed between my previous letter and this one, and I fear that in some way, I am carrying something far more than knowledge. 

The curse in question is something I have yet to grasp, but as much as I can see it, it feels as if the very fabric of my soul is being _read._ It is the most accurate description of what plagues me. I know what you must be thinking; that my paranoia, my nerves, my fear from my prior experiences, all of these must be feeding this larger beast or monster I have constructed in my mind. Any sane man would think as such -- how can a human be _read_ , like a book or tome you’d take off the shelf?

Better yet, how can a human be afraid of such a thing?

Perhaps it would be better if I elaborated at greater length, but I would not want to bombard you with essays concerning my experiences, as I have done so prior, so I shall keep this concise.

Upon the return home to the family estate in Stuttgart, the journey had been marked with a sense of what I can only call unease. Ever since I finished composing my second letter to be sent to you, I became distracted. In what, I couldn’t know, but it dogged me into the home -- the compulsion to check every window, close every curtain, clutch a candle close. Even so, the feeling persisted, and I could not locate the source of it, the source that something, and I emphasize _something,_ is watching me. I paced around the estate, every room, checked every drawer that there was not something lurking in the corners of these halls.

My wife marked my behaviour as perplexing almost immediately, noting that I was incredibly tense, and to my surprise, I was exceptionally so. My jaw was clenched, and I hadn’t noticed it but I was grinding my teeth. She coaxed me to bed, reassuring me that nothing was there, but as I stood there, I didn’t move. I was frozen to where I stood, with her eyes on me and I could feel nothing but as if she was aware of something that I was not. More so, that she could _tell_ where it was, but spoke nothing of it to me. It felt as if she could peel my skin open, layer by layer, and turn them as if they were pages of a book.

She didn’t blink. I’m not entirely sure I did either.

I cannot say in good conscience I slept well that evening. I didn’t sleep at all, for even though my wife was fast asleep by my side, her eyes did not move. They did not move, aside from when I did -- when I shifted fitfully under the sheets, they trailed to follow me. It felt as if she were to awake at any moment, and pry open my skin to read between the lines. It is an uneasy feeling, and it disturbs me more so that I have such a specific feeling I can articulate to you. In the darkness of our bed, even with her sleeping eyes transfixed on me, curtains closed, something lingered just beyond the walls. Watching me through the windows. Something that wasn’t her.

I checked, naturally, but found nothing. I blinked with dry eyes, and found nothing again.

In the morning, I brushed it off as shock, or fatigue, but when I retreated to the drawing room, the unease rose again. My eyes went to the garden, but found nobody who I could claim responsible for these woes. It wasn’t until Greta, my servant, greeted me from the open door. How long had she been there, observing me in one of my weaker moments, I do not know, but I turned to face her and her gaze was locked on mine. It was the same, distant, _hungry_ stare, that even my own servant wanted to pillage my mind, loot it as if it were that tomb. It was as if she saw through me, knew of my plights, yet spoke nothing after her entrance. I greeted her in turn, although she didn’t seem to notice until I cleared my throat, after which whatever laid claim over her vanished, and all was well.

The feeling did not fade, however. Her eyes followed me as I left that room, and throughout the estate. It was not just hers, but everyone I came into contact with. My passing days have been distinguished by this _haunting_ of my soul. I have come to wonder if it is my guilt, manifesting in what I fear to be, not a transitory experience. That would imply I have a crime or sin I am guilty of, and yet I find in my heart I have neither, but the eyes that follow me where I walk seem to have minds of their own and would argue against such a notion.

All I can hope is to weather the tempest, or that this terror my experiences have instilled in me will fade with time and company. It is partially why I send this letter, as an open invitation to you, and whomever you might like to bring. The change in pace would be warmly welcomed, and hopefully signified by your arrival, this can be resolved, whatever this may be.

I apologise again for the composition of this letter, and the state which I am in whilst delivering it to you, but I send this with urgency that perhaps you would have a better indication than I for helping me with this affliction of mine. 

Yours in trust,

Albrecht.

  
  


* * *

**_August 12th, 1824_ **

My dearest Jonah, 

I write this letter to you in response to hearing the news, offering my congratulations and heartfelt sentiments for the success of the opening of your Institute. I know it has been some time since our last correspondence, and I have not seen to it properly to celebrate your well-earned prosperity. Time has passed, and I can only but marvel in your prowess. I hope that you find yourself in good health during this time which, no doubt, has been of some stress to you. Your accomplishments are to be applauded, and I hope to commemorate them the next time we meet in person.

However, I’m afraid I find myself not being entirely forthright either, as I write to you for other concerns that have stemmed as a result of my dishonesty with you. I pray you will forgive me for such a transgression, as it is never my intent to be nothing but faithful with you, but it was a complex matter at the times, and my thoughts have not always been clear. I’m certain you recall my curse, which I wrote to you on, and your subsequent visit the following spring, in which I turned over the book I found within that tomb and discussed my experience at great lengths. I should be truthful in admitting to you that I have been withholding information, not out of malice, but out of my own concern and uncertainties that I didn’t wish to appear selfish in my intentions by burdening you with my issues. I had already asked for your company, so I thought it would be enough, but I now recognise this as presumptuous of me, and for that, I apologise for my cowardice in not wanting to fully disclose what I should have.

Now that I have reflected upon the matter, and have had the time to do so, I feel as if it would be common logic to deliberate with you on this matter, as you are an expert on these fields, and the first individual I thought to contact in regards to the tomb. In my account, I detailed that the books on those shelves were unsalvageable, but that was not the entire truth. The conditions of them, when I found them at a face value, I thought to be as such, yes - destroyed beyond repair. Even so, there was a compulsive tug for me to pull them from the shelves, a thread guiding my hand to run my fingers over the decrepit, dreary leather that had been eaten away by time itself. With this strange sensation washing over me, even in the condition they were in, I took the books from the shelves.

All of them.

Of course, transporting a library’s worth of books and tomes, all in their various states of disrepair, from my brother’s estate to my own, isn’t an easy feat, less so when they run the chance of turning to dust in the face of the wind. And yet, these books -- I felt the very fibre of my soul resonate with these tomes. I clung to them fiercely, protected them with my life. For all the world I _knew_ these books would harbour the ability to unlock secrets long since past. It echoed in my bones, and it was when we were able to move them from the coaches to my estate proper, to my personal library, I happened upon the marvelous fact that the books and their conditions were, in fact, salvageable. 

I cannot tell you the uttermost _joy_ I had at discovering this fact. They were damaged by water, yes, but through divine miracle or perhaps even intervention, the books were unharmed, for the most part. Certain books survived a majority of the neglect, their damage contained to their covers and spines. For others, the pages were fastened together, and I dared not part them. Some I thought to be lost completely, no doubt to rip and tear if I were to even lay so much more than a fragile touch to them, but I have not had the heart nor the strength to dispose of them. Whatever guided me to bring them home, I could not do that upon myself.

You may have noticed that no such books described in this letter appeared on my shelves, and for that, I must also apologise. I pray you do not hold this against me, nor the prolonged silence, but you must understand that the instinct of preservation is strong, and I had the collection set aside in a private chamber. You see, I have been tending the books in question, and I have devoted myself to them. Day, night, whenever spare time finds me between my duties and what is demanded of me, I retreat, in hopes of further comprehending the twisting mysteries locked away in those pages. I tend to them as one might look after a garden, though there is no pruning or pulling up of weeds. I would not dare touch something that is cultivated so beautifully, so elegantly.

As captivating as the new devotion I’ve made of it, the state of working with them is concerning. There is only so much I can do, and the contents of them have made me apprehensive. As delightful as working my way through the extensive volumes is, it has been taxing on me. The contents of the book vary, but from what I have gleamed, they are stories. Whether they are connected, I’m not certain, but it is safe to say they are both intriguing as they are repulsive, and I find once I have started, it is difficult for me to break away without proper intervention. I can find myself starting in the morning, studying, and only when Clara fetches me for bed do I realise how drained I am in mind, and how the day has slipped passed me, leaving me with only a fatigued body and soul.

Discussing this, I feel it is also pertinent to disclose that my condition, which I thought cured by your wisdom, has unfortunately returned. I will admit that it returned a few days following your departure, which marks a considerable span of time from which I have suffered from what has ailed me since that day. You must wonder how I found respite, in all of these passing years, with the mounting dread of paranoia that chases after my coat tails. It has not all been a blessing. Every day, I enter a room, and everyone devotes their attention to me. Not in gratitude, or relief, but with an unerring, neutral stare that is enough to pin any man to their place. People continue to stare through me.

The feeling persists wherever I travel, no matter the distance, and there are some days worse than others, days where every eye burns a hole into my skin, and I feel as if my entire existence is being flayed alive by creatures that stalk in the shadows. There are days where I cannot even leave my own bed, and I waste away under whatever watchful gaze wishes it upon me to suffer for their sadistic entertainment, knowing they are complicit in the act, and that I am to be their puppet on strings.

It may bring you to question how these two correlate, or what reason I have for bringing up both of these subjects, but it is with this studying that I have found a temporary medication for whatever anxieties I suffer from. It is peculiar, but by reading these books, I have found freedom from what eyes peer at me, or at the least a momentary abatement. Reading what I have collected, what can be safely indulged in, is of immense comfort. 

It is a perplexing situation to describe, I am aware; as the horrors contained within the narratives are woven, I am subject to each one, reliving characters and the horrors they are tormented with. I wish to scream when I read, sometimes, when the pictures are so vivid in my mind, scratching and clawing in the back of my head for release. And yet, I find satisfaction in it, as if the words themselves are to be inscribed upon my skin for the world to see. The ink is to be engraved into my flesh, so the twisted horrors bring me this relief I have found, this freedom I have earned from the sight that ignites my blood, bringing it to a boil beneath the surface, wanting to burn me from the inside out.

The eyes that watch me, they know of my greed. My chosen silence in wanting to hoard these books for myself, tucked away so nobody else may know of their contents. They watch me, silently, passing judgement upon me as if they have any right to do so. 

And thus, I come to the heart of the matter. The collection is dwindling. I have found that I can study a book more than once, yes, but the effect of it is lost. I know of the story, inside and out, so there is no relief, no sanctuary from whatever observes me. I know whatever it is that watches, it is within the house, in the corner of my eye, wherever I walk, but I cannot see it. I know it is there, and I feel my only escape from it is through these books. There are books here, which I cannot read. The pages are destroyed, or their bindings are suffering. 

I seek your aid, Jonah, in my time of plight. I wish to share the knowledge of these books with you, for I feel they would interest your expertise, and I ask for your help. I fear I may have to ration my studies, as much as I crave to read further, but there are also dozens of books here that, if treated and restored properly, could return them to their original glory. However, I am ignorant in that regard, and do not know of any such hands that I could entrust the duty to these books. So, I find myself falling to you. You deal with the most ancient and valued pieces of history, so certainly, you would know of people who you can trust to delegate this important task to. I have my faith in you that you can accomplish such a task. I admit my intention is selfish, but should you be inclined to assist me in a task, it won’t go without reward. I could never deny you such a notion.

If you know people you can trust with this, I beseech that you inform me immediately. I do fear that those in my circle begin to suspect the conditions of my health and the purpose of my studies. 

If you could spare the time in your schedule, either to reply or perhaps, even visit, I would be eternally grateful. It has been quite some time since we have last spoken face to face, and I find myself amess with all that I wish to discuss with you.

I would like to extend an invitation to that of Mr. Barnabas Bennett, whose company I delighted in when you both joined me for the spring those years ago. I would also be delighted to introduce you both to my two sons, Otto and Hans, whom we have been blessed to have entered my family’s life, considering the prior difficulties we have had. They are my pride and joy and I wish for you to meet them. 

Again, I find myself apologising to you, and indebted to you for all that you have done in tolerating my erratic behaviour. Our relationship has been one I intend to honour, in spite of my malady.

Yours in trust,

Albrecht.

* * *

**_December 12th, 1830_ **

My dearest, Jonah,

I thank you for attending Clara’s funeral on such short notice. I’m certain she would’ve appreciated your expediency, even in the event of her death.

I would also like to thank you immensely for having the books bound and returned to my estate. I am aware that the process took longer than the both of us would have preferred, but the journey was well worth the results to see them returned and now among my shelves. There is no written gratitude I can express within this letter that could convey how much the notion means to me. Perhaps I will finally have peace within my mind once more.

My health has been of growing concern to me as of late. For the past decade and a half, I have accepted it as a part of my life, adapted to suit what was required of me, even if it wasn’t enough. I know you have tried to offer your solutions, your remedies, your consolations, but it is only the other day, when I saw myself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the man in the reflection, it dawned on me that none of this is normal. Perhaps I have always known, deep down within my soul, that the abject horror that I have resigned myself to is something no human should grow accustomed to, nor attached. Why was it only now that I was scared to my wits, to the eyes that protrude from my sunken sockets?

I know something is watching, Jonah. I have always known it. It may not have a body, or a face, or any physical thing, but I know it is watching me as I grow sick in my own home, a home I dare not even leave. People do not visit. They have no reason to, and I am better when my company is myself and my thoughts, to have no one be my silent sentinel.

Still, this letter is not to bring you concern, but rather, my gratitude. Hopefully this nightmare will end, as I take the role of librarian of this collection I have fostered over the years. I have continued my life, as much as I am impeded by what paralyzes me. 

I do dwell on the possibility if I had not entered that tomb, but the thoughts are chased away by the stories I welcomed into my heart instead.

Yours in trust,

Albrecht.

* * *

**_October 22nd, 1831_ **

My dearest, Jonah,

I cannot endure this torment any longer.

I do not know when this waking nightmare I have been walking, breathing, reliving, will end. There does not seem to be an end to this bleak tunnel as eyes open around me, all the while I chase the light at the end of it. They watch me as I do, as they always have done, and even now, they watch me as I send my last hope to you, as I am left with nothing else. Faith has failed me, as I know His eyes are not the ones that stalk my restless nights.

I am fitful. I have woken many times, standing, in front of my books. The eyes -- they did not exist as physical things before, nothing tangible, but I see them now. The knots of woods, swirled and bulbous. They blink when I am not looking, their pupils fixed to me wherever I move. It creaks and moans, my home, and I can tell it is shifting to watch where I place my foot, to hear the boot press its weight against the floorboard. There are eyes in the drawing room, the ink, the words and letters, there are eyes in the food, the vegetables and fruits, spices, the tea pot, my cups, my quills and there are eyes in me. 

I am not well, Jonah, and I fear a disease has infected me. Something has taken root in my heart, and it is only now that it has blossomed. It hurts to breathe, strained and laboured. My chest feels heavy, and when I run my hand across it, it is littered with lumps and rolling hills, marking my chest with various valleys. My hands -- the joints suffer the same. My legs. Everything is aching, and if I am to press these marks, they are tender to the touch. Any amount of pressure is excruciating. I woke up this morning, to find them on my neck. 

I know they are there. I can feel them. I ask if Greta, my servant, can see them. She doesn’t respond, of course. She is preoccupied with staring at me as if I have cast the first stone. As if I have eaten of forbidden fruit, and this is to be my sin.

I am afraid, Jonah. 

I have not called a physician, and I know I should, but I cannot trust them. They will have me vivisected like a specimen, dissect me alive in front of a theatre of eager eyes who would wish to do nothing but watch me squirm under a scalpel, picking at whatever it is that has flourished in me with a removed, scientific fascination. I have seen the way they gawk, the vultures. Waiting for me to collapse. The eyes do. I know they do. I know the tree outside of my estate does. It watches from a distance, waiting for the day I am to fertilise the soil.

The books do not offer me comfort. I do not know why, but they have lost every meaning they used to once hold. They are blank, much like my mind. I am tormented for reasons I do not know why, and the anguish is unbearable. 

You are all I have left. Everyone else has left me, and I require aid. I want to be rid of this affliction, this damned devilry, to seize my life again, but I find myself thinking that it has been so long having lived as I have, that I do not know what life would be like if I returned to such a place of ignorance. Perhaps it would be better, I would like to think, knowing that there is something that is watching, but I tell myself otherwise. I say that whatever has condemned me, I want to be free of its vices. I want to know peace.

I am so sick, Jonah. I do not look in mirrors, afraid to see my own reflection in the glass, but I know in my heart I am sick. I feel bloated. I do not eat. I am lethargic. I hardly move. I sleep.

This is no way for a man to live his life.

Please help me.

Yours in faith,

Albrecht.

* * *

**_November 7th, 1831_ **

Dearest Jonathan,

I write to you as it has come to my attention that an associate of mine, Albrecht von Closen, has fallen seriously ill. He has been suffering from outstanding conditions for the past decade and a half, but it seems he has deteriorated significantly in the past few months, based on his most recent correspondence with me. 

It is not often I call upon your services, as I know you are almost always preoccupied, but I implore you to please seek out Albrecht. I have known him well, and I would hate to see him succumb to his ailments. I do not know the extent of his condition, as he did not divulge the full extent of it to me in writing, but he has expressed his fears in seeking out other medical practitioners. He has asked me for my aid, and so I have written to you, as your professionalism, efficiency and discrete nature should soothe his paranoia. 

It would be polite to inform you that he is situated in Stuttgart, on his family estate under the same name. I will be willing to expense the trip, along with any supplies you may require. I would also ask of you to send a report on his health ahead of your return, so I can rest easy knowing you have performed your duty.

I also write to you with an opportunity. As you know, I am currently overseeing the construction and establishment of Millbank Penitentiary alongside architect Robert Smirke. This places me within the position of servicing the Penitentiary with staff when it opens. No doubt, I will require the best medical expertise I can muster, and with this, I would like to offer you a position within Millbank to practice as a doctor. 

The position will be based solely in London, so travel will be unnecessary, and thus you will be in close proximity to the city at all times. This will be paid for, of course, by myself, so there is no concern of rent or debts accumulating. I will also offer a gracious salary for you to accept this position, and dedicated days of leave where you won’t be required to work. Other conditions can be discussed whenever you’d like, but the sooner you respond, the better.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely yours,

Jonah Magnus.


End file.
